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Timothy, sympathetic, concerned, asked me who I’d consider a really beautiful girl. I was silent, contemplating my options. Ned, being helpful, suggested Raquel Welch, Catherine Deneuve, Lainie Kazan. At last, coming on with marvelous ingenuousness, I blurted, “I consider Margo a really beautiful girl.” Timothy’s Margo. Timothy’s goyishe goddess, the golden shikse. Having said it, I felt a swiftly sketched series of quick interchanges of dialog resonating through my ca
“Sure she would. She thinks you’re cute.”
“We all think you’re cute, Eli.” That was Ned. “But I couldn’t — she wouldn’t — how — what-—”
“I bestow her upon you,” said Timothy magnificently. The grand seigneur, making a lordly gesture. “I can’t let my friends walk around in a state of frustration and unrequited longing. Tomorrow at eight, her place. I’ll tell her to expect you.”
“It seems like a cheat,” I said, growing morose. ‘Too easy. Unreal.”
“Don’t be an ass. Accept it as vicarious experience. Like going to the movies, only more intimate.”
“And more tactile,” said Ned.
“I think you’re putting me on,” I told Timothy.
“Scout’s honor! She’s yours!”
He began describing Margo’s preferences in bed, her special erogenous zones, the little signals they used. I caught the spirit of the thing, flew high and higher, got myself into a laughter trip, began capping Timothy’s graphic descriptions with scabrous fantasies of my own. Of course, when I crashed an hour or two later I was certain Timothy had been putting me on, and that tumbled me into a dark abyss. For I had always been convinced that the Margos of this world are not for me. The Timothys would fuck their way through whole brigades of Margos, but I would have never a one. In truth I worshiped her from afar. The prototypical shikse, the flower of Aryan womanhood, slim and long-legged, two inches taller than 1 am (it seems so much more, when the girl is taller than you!), silky golden hair, sly blue eyes, upturned button nose, wide agile lips. A strong girl, a lively girl, a star basketball player (Oliver himself respected her abilities on the court), an outstanding scholar, a wry and supple wit: why, she was frightening, numbingly perfect, one of those flawless female creatures that our aristocracy spawns in such multitudes, born to rule serenely over country estates or to prance with poodles down Second Avenue. Margo for me? My sweaty hairy body to cover hers? My stubbly cheek to rub against her satiny skin? Yes, and frogs would couple with comets. To Margo I must seem something coarse and grubby, the pathetic representative of an inferior species. Any commerce between us would be u
I assumed that the matter was ended. Oliver had basketball practice that night. Ned went to the movies. About half past seven Timothy excused himself. Library work, he said, see you at ten. I was alone in the apartment we shared. Unsuspecting. Busied myself with my paper. At eight a key turning in the door; Margo entered; a ravishing smile, molten gold. For me, panic, consternation. “Timothy here?” she asked, casually locking the door behind her. Thunder in my chest. “Library,” I blurted. “Back at ten.” No place to hide for me. Margo pouted. “I was sure I’d find him here. Well, it’s his tough luck. Are you very busy, Eli?” A sparkling blue-eyed wink. She draped herself serenely on the couch.
“I’ve been doing this paper,” I said. “On the irregular forms of the verb to—”
“How fascinating! Would you like to smoke?”
I understood. They had set it up. A conspiracy to make me happy, whether I liked it or not. I felt patronized, used, mocked. Should I order her to leave? No, schmendrick, don’t be dumb. She’s yours for two hours. To hell with the moral frills. The end justifies the means. Here’s your chance and you won’t get another. I swaggered toward the couch. Eli, swaggering, yes! She had two fat joints, professionally rolled. Coolly she lit one, pulled deep, handed it to me; my wrist shook, I nearly jabbed the burning end of the joint into her arm in my tremor as I took it from her. Raw stuff; I coughed; she patted my back. Schlemihl. Schlep. She inhaled and flashed her eyebrows in an “oh, wow!” at me. The pot did nothing for me at all, though; I was too tense, and the adrenalin in me burned away the effect before it could take hold. I was conscious of the reek of my perspiration. Rapidly the stick was down to a roach. Margo, already looking stoned, proffered the other one. I shook my head. “Later,” I said.
She rose and prowled around the room. “It’s awfully hot in here, don’t you think?” What a cliche number! A clever girl like Margo could have been capable of better. She stretched. Yawned. She was wearing tight white hip-huggers and a skimpy top, flat tawny midriff bare. No bra, no panties, obviously: the little hummocks of her nipples were visible, and the slacks, clinging skintight to her round, small buttocks, revealed no telltale underwear creases. Ah, Eli, you observant devil, you suave and skillful manipulator of womanflesh! “So hot in here,” she said, stony-dreamy. Off with the top. Favoring me with an i